I don't make no jokes about bombs or guns because they take them seriously
ONE day off from work, and no idea what to do with myself. I am not a creative person and left to my own devices turn inward and grim-seeming. Last night L. Trela told me that I seem to be declining steadily and firmly, and this point is reiterated by a two-day old friend who makes fun of my hair. “Being unkempt is one thing,” she said, “but this is something else entirely.” And it’s all true: if the outward appearance is some signal of what is happening on a more cognitive level, everything’s a mess. I walk around with a mountain man shirt on all day and the accompanying sense of ennui. There’s no solid deduction that I could offer you, no firm answers which wouldn’t crumble under tenuous footing. I need some sort of vacation, I think, but I don’t really like to travel.

A couple of months ago Adam Lynch and I inexplicably attempted to lie our way into Canada, en route to Montreal. The whole idea being that we appear to be sketchy terrorists and it would circumvent the whole interrogation process if we said we were going to visit a friend, totally unprepared for the interrogation which would follow when we did in fact deliver this excuse. Two oversized Canadian officials produced and searched the car, holding up a bottle of half-empty whiskey before wanting to know the address and phone number of our imaginary friend. Adam stammered a bit before producing a phony contact number and then proceeded to turn an almost sallow color that skin is wont to produce. We talked over the myriad possibilities in the hard chairs of the border waiting room, the actual telephone number of the person he had just given, the confusion it would elicit, and the grim shadowy descending these answers produced. The border patrol person returned moments later, with the grim determination of finding out our real business in Canada, which is blowing up buildings and destroying landmarks. We noted the handcuffs and gun as we stammered to find something to say. He fixed on us boldly, before asking something more typical of third grade classrooms. “Do you know what happens to liars?” he asked rhetorically. Oh dear god, we thought, are we going to be taken away and locked up under some obscure Canadian law? We paused a bit, thinking of the possibilities before he issued forth an answer. “THEY GET SENT BACK TO THE USA,” he said, pointing at the prominently displayed USA sign, with the little U-turn symbol that is the international symbol, apparently, for you just fucked up the whole trip. I snickered uncontrollably in full earshot of the patrolman, and then we turned the car around and headed back across the imaginary line, with the clear and articulate direction of the sign. And so some things you just can’t escape, it seems.